Amy’s POV
The living room smelled like buttery popcorn, fabric softener, and something warm and faintly citrusy—probably James’ cologne lingering in the cushions. I sat cross-legged on one end of the oversized couch in a hoodie I had borrowed from him, sipping root beer from a can while some action movie played on the screen in front of us. The lights were off except for the glow from the TV, and the occasional flicker of headlights passing outside the window.
James was beside me, stretched out with one leg propped up on the coffee table, his arm resting lazily on the back of the couch. He wasn’t really watching the movie either. Every now and then he’d throw popcorn in the air and try to catch it with his mouth—missing most of the time and blaming “air resistance.”
I was laughing at one of those failed attempts when I yawned—long and unexpected—and leaned back into the couch. “I swear I’m not trying to fall asleep,” I mumbled through another yawn, resting my head on the soft pillow near the armrest.
“Sure you’re not,” he teased, tossing another popcorn kernel at me. “You look two blinks away from a coma.”
I stuck out my tongue at him, but the warmth of the blanket across my legs and the steady beat of the rain that had started tapping against the window made it harder and harder to keep my eyes open.
The last thing I remembered was the sound of James laughing low in his throat at something stupid on the screen.
Then everything faded into soft black.
When I opened my eyes again, it was darker in the room—quieter, too—and the movie had ended. The screen was back to the Netflix home screen, glowing dimly in front of us.
And I wasn’t where I had fallen asleep.
I was curled into James’ side, my head resting against his chest, his arm around my waist like it had always belonged there. His fingers were tangled gently in my hair, not moving, just holding.
And the craziest part?
He hadn’t shifted away.
He was still there, still awake, still holding me like I was something fragile and familiar all at once.
My breath caught in my throat.
“This is too good,” he whispered, his voice low and close to my ear. “You’re too good at pretending.”
I didn’t know what to say. My heart was thudding so loud I was sure he could feel it against his ribs. His hand stayed in my hair, and his thumb brushed the side of my head so lightly it felt like static electricity.
“This doesn’t feel fake,” he added quietly.
I turned my head slightly, just enough to look up at him. The glow from the TV screen lit up his jawline, the curve of his lips, the warmth in his eyes that wasn’t cocky or smug for once. It was something else. Something honest.
“What if I don’t want it to be fake anymore?” I asked, barely louder than a breath.
He blinked slowly, like he hadn’t expected that.
Then he leaned in.
There was no rush. No flashy move. Just a slow, careful lean like he was giving me time to pull away if I wanted to.
But I didn’t.
I even think about it.
When his lips brushed against mine, it wasn’t fire or sparks or some wild chaos. It was something better—soft, deep, and completely real. A kiss that felt like a secret I’d been dying to tell but never had the courage. My hand slid up to his chest, fingers gripping the fabric of his T-shirt like I needed him to prove this was real. I kissed him back, hard and hungry, like I’d been starved for it—because, damn it, I had.
All the anger, the betrayal, the nights spent crying in my car, or forcing myself to stay quiet at cheer practice? It all melted away in that kiss. In that moment, none of it mattered. Not with his lips on mine, his arms wrapped around me like I was something he’d never let go.
The world felt quiet.
Safe.
And then—
The door creaked.
We both froze, lips still inches apart, breath mingling in the tiny space between us.
James’ dad stepped into the room, blinking as he looked from us to the empty popcorn bowl to the TV screen and back again.
He raised one eyebrow and smirked.
“So,” he said slowly, like he was enjoying this way too much, “should I order pizza, or…?”